


Better Than Butterscotch

by Persiflager



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's mouth waters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than Butterscotch

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 24 hours for [peevee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee)'s prompt 'suck it and see' at [come-at-once](http://come-at-once.livejournal.com/). I've tidied it up, expanded it slightly and changed the last few lines.

“Do you want a sweet?” Mrs Hudson rattled the tin under Sherlock’s nose. “Mrs Turner brought them back from Tenerife.”

“Why?”

“Social convention,” drawled Mycroft from his position in the other armchair. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” He waved away the tin when it was thrust in his direction.

“How about you, John?” asked Mrs Hudson as she wandered over to the sofa. “You’ll have one with your tea, won’t you? I can’t eat them all by myself.”

John looked up from his laptop to find a pastel assortment of boiled sweets right in front of his face.

“Do you know what flavours they are?” 

“No, dear. You’ll just have to suck it and see, as we used to say, but of course it was very different being young in the sixties.” She sighed happily.

John raised his eyebrows and took a sweet at random. Mrs Hudson bustled away and it occurred to him, not for the first time, that his assumed status of ‘most sexually experienced person living at 221 Baker Street’ might be on rather shaky ground.

Still, she had a few years on him; he could catch up.

He popped the sweet in his mouth (lemon, thank god) and went back to watching the fraternal sparring while pretending to work on his blog.

John had come downstairs half an hour ago to find them arguing about the Crimean War, and they’d been trading barbs ever since. He still wasn’t entirely clear what they were arguing about – Mycroft almost certainly wanted Sherlock to do something, which Sherlock was avoiding out of sheer contrariness – but that didn’t make it any less entertaining.

Sherlock was glowering with the expression of a cat who’d just been sprayed with water and Mycroft … _well_. He was wearing an outfit that would have made anyone else look ridiculously over-dressed but somehow suited him perfectly. Three-piece suit, starched collar, fancy knot in his tie, razor-sharp creases in his trousers, shoes polished to mirrors. 

John checked to make sure that they weren’t paying attention to him before letting his mind wander.

_Because there’s nothing wrong with being curious about someone. That’s perfectly healthy – normal, even, especially with someone as mysterious as him. And I can think about, say, his sex-life because I’m secure and open-minded. And he might not even be gay, actually._

John rolled the sweet around in his mouth, enjoying its tangy sweetness on his tongue, holding it against the roof of his mouth.

_He definitely is though. Sherlock’s never said but I can tell - no straight man ever held a tea-cup like that. Bent as a nine-bob note, bet you anything. I wonder if he takes it up the bum?_

John sucked hard and let the flavour of citrus run down his throat.

_I bet he’s turned a few blokes, lucky buggers. He’d have them on their knees and sucking his cock before they knew what hit them, and they’d like it. It’s probably a big one, judging by the size of him._

The sweet cracked a little. A few grains of sherbet fizzed sharply on his tongue.

_I wonder-_

His train of thought was interrupted by a quiet cough. John blinked and found two Holmesian faces staring at him – one intrigued, the other utterly aghast.

“You moaned,” said Mycroft politely. The universe seemed to blur slightly as the Mycroft of John’s imagination dissolved into the real one.

Sherlock’s hands were clenched on the arm of the chair.

“Ah,” said John, looking between them while his brain tried to get back in gear. The sound of him crunching the remains of his sweet did nothing to dispel the awkwardness.

Sherlock stood up suddenly. “I’m going to go and bleach my eyeballs.” 

“What about your shoes?” asked John, temporarily distracted from the mounting horror by the sight of Sherlock’s bare feet crossing the carpet.

“I’ll buy more!”

The door slammed, and John was left alone with Mycroft. John looked him straight in the eye and smiled as cheerfully as he could.

That didn’t help. Mycroft’s look of interest intensified until it felt like a mirror, reflecting John’s thoughts and desires back on himself.

_Maybe this is a good thing,_ John found himself thinking. _He basically knows what you’re thinking anyway, so you hardly have to say it._

John licked his lips and stared at the air just to the left of Mycroft’s face. “I think I’d like to-“

“Yes,” said Mycroft equably, sitting back. “I thought you might.”

_There, I’ve said it. Now he’ll work his sneaky magic and make me do it. Any moment now._

Mycroft picked up a newspaper and started reading it with what appeared to be his full attention.

John blinked. He stood up. “Right then,” he said. “I’ll just …”

Mycroft turned the page with an elegant, deliberate flick of his wrist.

John walked slowly in the direction of the stairs, giving Mycroft every opportunity to stop him. 

Mycroft continued to read the paper.

John had his hand on the living room door when he snapped.

“Can I?” he asked, marching back to stand in front of the armchair. 

The newspaper was lowered. “I’ll allow it,” said Mycroft, amusement colouring his voice. He folded the paper neatly, placed it down on the coffee table and spread his legs.

John dropped to his knees with a crack and crawled forward, eyes firmly fixed on the swirls of colour in the carpet. When his head bumped into the edge of the armchair, he looked to his right at the shiny black surface of Mycroft’s shoe and stared for a moment at the blurry image of his face reflected there. Gradually raising his head, he followed the line of the trouser crease all the way up to the lower edge of Mycroft’s pinstriped waistcoat (a relatively safe target). Daring, he rested his hands on Mycroft’s knees. When that didn’t get a response, he took a deep breath and slid his hands up the rich, thick wool covering Mycroft’s thighs.

_No going back now,_ he thought as he stroked his thumb lightly over the bulge of Mycroft’s fly. _This is where it starts to get properly gay_.

His hands didn’t appear to have the same qualms as the rest of him. They confidently unzipped Mycroft’s trousers and carefully drew out his half-hard cock.

_Then again,_ he thought, watching in fascination as Mycroft’s erection thickened and firmed in his hand, _where’s the fun in jumping in at the shallow end?_

Keeping his gaze fixed firmly below the waist, John leant forward and wrapped his lips around the plump, luscious head. There was a soft, bitten-off sound above him. He ignored it. His mouth watered as he ran his tongue tentatively round the thick ridge, then again more firmly. Spreading one hand across the top of Mycroft’s tensed thigh for support, he tightened his lips and sank slowly down.

It was almost like watching someone else do it - one of those faceless strangers that he’d imagined kneeling at Mycroft’s feet. (And, if he was being honest with himself he’d admit that he’d thought about it often, in the moments before orgasm when his mind wandered and his defences fell). Without thinking too hard about it, John bobbed his head up and down in a shallow, steady rhythm, feeling Mycroft’s cock push past his lips and slide over his tongue before dragging back again.

There was an unfamiliar taste on his tongue that made him want to suck harder. So he did.

“Ah,” said Mycroft unsteadily, his voice far away. “I’m close. You might want to - _oh_.”

John sucked and sucked until Mycroft came, filling his mouth with salt. He swallowed reflexively.

Mycroft’s cock softened and slipped out of his mouth. John sat back on his heels, eyes still closed. He was vaguely aware that his knees and jaw ached, and that he was very hard.

There was a faint rustle as Mycroft tucked himself away.

“Would you like me to return the favour?” he asked in carefully modulated tones.

John shook his head. The world had gone very, very strange, and he was going to sit still until it sorted itself out.

“As you wish. Good day.” Mycroft stood up, his legs brushing against John’s side, and walked slowly away.

_Something’s wrong_ thought John fuzzily. _That didn’t sound like Fantasy Mycroft. He sounded disappointed – ah, shit._

He shot up with a speed that made his knees protest and ran out into the hallway.

Mycroft looked up with surprise from where he’d stopped halfway down the stairs.

“Just … wait a minute.” John got to the step above Mycroft, which put them at about the same height, and paused. 

Mycroft – lovely, human, slightly terrifying Real Mycroft – eyed him doubtfully.

“Shut up,” said John, mostly to himself, and he grabbed Mycroft by the shoulders and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

“Oh yes,” breathed Mycroft. He twisted to press John against the wall, kissing him thoroughly. “Yes, I think so.” He rested one hand possessively on John’s hip and used the other to nimbly unzip John’s jeans, exposing his cock to the cold air of the hall.

“ _Uh_ ,” moaned John as Mycroft’s soft lips and clever tongue and warm hand quickly took him apart. 

“You did ever so well,” said Mycroft conversationally as he stroked John deftly.” I might let you do that again. Would you like that?

John groaned helplessly in response. Mycroft kissed his neck and whispered filthy things to him, his hot breath damp in John’s ear, and when he came it was with thoughts of thick woollen fabric rubbing against his cheeks and his lips stretched wide around Mycroft’s broad cock.

When he eventually opened his eyes, he saw Mycroft tucking away a silk handkerchief.

“Can I call you sometime?” he blurted out.

“What for?” asked Mycroft, cocking his head on one side. It sounded like a genuine question.

“I’m not sure,” John admitted.

Mycroft smiled approvingly. “Then yes. Now, I’m afraid I really must go.” He kissed John quickly before turning and walking down the stairs, whistling jauntily.

John tucked himself away before sliding down to sit on the stairs. He rested his head in his hands. His mouth tasted very strange, he noted absently, running his tongue around his gums – a faint trace of the coffee that Mycroft had been drinking, a salty-sweet taste that he supposed must be come. And, underneath it all, the fresh, bright taste of lemon still lingered.


End file.
